


The Problem Is (That I Can't Say It)

by Niveously



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, PTSD Derek, PTSD Stiles, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Warnings May Change, but a story about surviving past abuse, this is not a story about ongoing abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2404061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niveously/pseuds/Niveously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years ago, something happened to Stiles. It's time to face the demons from the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Implied rape/non-con. The issue will be further adressed later. If you're having trouble with this subject, I advice you to not keep reading. Really, I might be stressing it a bit too much, but I know from several personal experiences that poorly tagged and warned triggers are real shitty to deal with. Be safe and be happy!  
> The story will have a happy ending, though. I can promise that!  
> This is also un-beta'd. All and any mistakes are my own. (But feel free to point them out for me!)  
> Rating and tags will change in the future.

They were sharing the small space between their faces, huffing the air out in short breaths. Stiles didn’t care that he got dizzy from the kissing. It felt way too nice to worry about something like providing your body with the necessity of oxygen, in his opinion. Especially when Derek groaned whenever Stiles accidentally exhaled hot air into his ear. And especially when he placed light kisses wherever he could and it made Stiles’ eyelids flutter shut every single time.

They had been doing this - sneaking around each other while Stiles pretended to study and then kissing on the bed for hours until John got back home - for weeks now, and Stiles doubted that he’d ever get tired of it.

Needless to say, it wasn’t the kissing that was the problem. Stiles liked the kissing. Loved it, even. Maybe because it was with him, with Derek, because Stiles had never experienced kissing like he did with him. It was a definite fave.

No, the problem was that Derek always left with half a boner and Stiles didn’t. Not because he couldn’t sport one - really, that was absolutely not the issue here - because Derek had to be carved out of marble or something. Actually, Stiles was usually the first one to get all hot and bothered since, hey, he was a teenager, and Derek just screamed dangerous-bad-boy-that-is-very-fuckable.

The problem was that every time Derek moved below his upper chest, or gently grinded down on him, or placed himself between Stiles’ legs, or whispered something about how much he wanted him, it just made Stiles’ guts twist in a bad way and bye boner. And the fucking problem was that Derek had, on several occasions, politely excused himself to go to the bathroom and Stiles knew very well what he was doing in there. It usually took him all the power he could muster to just blink the tears away and keep his mind from going on and on about how much he suck for putting Derek in that position. For not going through what they both wanted. All because of-

Stiles swallowed thickly, willing his thoughts back to the present. Because, kissing. Kissing he could do. He could handle kissing. And he could definitely handle Derek nibbling on the shell of his ear, which he made clear by grabbing a firm hold of Derek’s shirt, groaning.

But then Derek grabbed his wrists and pinned his arms over his head, and his body tensed up in less than half a second - bye boner -, and then he was free again before he could react further. His brain to mouth filter wasn’t functioning properly, though, and he yelped out a weak ‘no’ as he pulled his arms back, holding them close to his chest.

He looked up at Derek who was sitting back on his heels, arms half raised in the air. He was breathing heavily. Not the kind of heavy breathing he had been doing five seconds ago, but more of a hesitating, shaking heavy breathing. And he looked a bit scared, which Stiles later realized must have mirrored his own expression rather perfectly.

“Stiles?” They looked at each other, both trying to figure something out, whatever it was.

“Why do you smell like I’ve hurt you?” Stiles blinked, remembering for the fiftyeleventh time that werewolves are real and that they can smell feelings. Which is kind of weird, to be honest. And suddenly Derek looked more worried than scared.

“Did I?” Derek would probably never admit it to himself, but his voice was trembling, and Stiles’ stomach made backflips of the painful kind. The kind where you miscalculate the force in the jump and accidentally land on your neck. All he could do was shrug, and he immediately cursed himself for doing so. Why did he even do that? It had hurt, but Derek hadn’t hurt him, so why did he shrug? Derek looked like a kicked puppy that was about to kick itself one more time out of pure self hatred.

Stiles hopped up on his elbow and reached for Derek, but before he could even touch him, Derek stood up from the bed. He picked up his jacket from the floor where it had landed in some heated moment and marched towards the door.

“Wait, Derek, I didn’t- Could you stop?” And he did, but stood still facing the door, refusing to look at Stiles.

“I didn’t- You didn’t hurt me, okay?” Stiles scrambled up from the bed, adjusting his shirt while taking a few careful steps toward the slightly taller man. He looked odd and out of place in his room. All grown up, leather jacket, five o’clock shadows on his face, right in the middle of a room with posters of Iron Man and dirty clothes scattered all over the place. Untouched homework on the desk, Candy Crush paused on his computer screen, a ‘Knock or die’ sign on the door from when he was fourteen and full of angst.

Stiles felt scared, then. As if Derek didn’t belong there, didn’t belong in his life - or Stiles in his. He almost choked at that last thought.

Derek apparently took the silence for his moment to escape. He turned his head slightly as he took the left turn towards the stairs, and Stiles caught one last second of eye contact.

He stood frozen until he heard the front door slam shut and the Camaro pulled out of the driveway. Then he stood frozen for another minute, and then another. And then he was blinking away tears that were threatening to start rolling down his cheeks any second.

No, the problem definitely wasn’t the kissing. The problem wasn’t Derek. The problem was Stiles.


	2. Chapter 2

So when he didn’t hear from Derek for two days, he did the only sensible thing and stared at his phone whenever he got the chance to. He’d typed out about twenty different texts that all seemed wrong and he’d just almost pressed the call button at least just as many times. When Monday rolled around, he was almost glad to have a reason not to constantly hold a death grip of that taunting piece of technology in his hand. It turned out that it was almost even more infuriating to catch himself touching the pocket of his jeans whenever he was absolutely, one hundred percent certain that it had just buzzed in the middle of math class.

He turned the phone off after lunch, eager to get on with three more periods and then some late after school lacrosse practice.

Turning it off had been a poor decision, he later realized. His brain was, apparently, a complete douche and created false hope. Stiles expected something, a text at the very least, when he turned his phone on again as soon as he had dropped his bag on the bedroom floor back home. When the screen showed nothing, not even a facebook notification, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He sat down on the bed and felt his face scrumble into something ugly.

He kept wiping his cheeks but the tears just kept coming, which made him even more frustrated. He felt pathetic. He was practically sobbing over something as ridiculous as not getting a text when he wanted to. But then again, he knew that that wasn’t the real reason he was crying.

He was crying because he felt even more scared than before. He’d felt scared for as long as he could remember. Scared of the dark when he was three, scared of death when his mom was in the hospital, scared of being left alone when his dad had the heart attack.

Scared of someone else’s hands on him since that early morning in August three years ago.

But now he felt even more scared than any of those times.

Derek had seen him at his worst moments; had heard his muffled screams under the blanket when the nightmares had been too much, had talked him out of hyperventilating, had held him close when Stiles had spit out that he hated him. He’d still chosen to stay and to brush his eyelashes over Stiles’ skin and to hold that kiss for just a few more seconds.

The thought that Derek had realized his mistakes with him was too much. Stiles failed miserably at breathing in and ended up full on sobbing instead. He covered his face with his hands, opened his mouth wide in a try to get some air into his lungs. His stomach cramped and he folded over himself, not even aware of the guttural sound that escaped him, and he thought that he might be dying.

He didn’t notice it when his door slid open, but he snapped his head up when the bed dipped next to him, still with his hands covering his face. John was looking back at him. His face was blurry, sometimes looking a bit clearer as a tear escaped Stiles’ eye, but he didn’t stay in focus for long. Stiles sobbed again, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.

“Oh, son…” John placed a hand on his shoulder and Stiles fought the urge to shrug it off. His dad hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t his fault that Stiles wanted someone else’s hand there.

But that someone else’s hand might never be there ever again. There might never be a hand there to put some new paint on the walls of Stiles’ memory ever again. There was a possibility that he was left like some old factory to decay and fall apart and to never get some new nails to repair the walls with. That he was left to fall into himself, left to want to rip his skin off all by himself.

With that thought, Stiles leaned into John’s touch, letting him wrap his shaking body up in strong, safe arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Four o’clock in the morning. It’s a time for crawling up in bed after too many hours on the computer on a Saturday night. It’s a time for sleeping, safe and sound, curled up in warm blankets. It’s definitely not a time for standing on the porch with a cup of coffee, wearing too little clothes with the mist lying thick on the ground.

Still, Stiles just kept sipping his smoking hot beverage and listened to the silence around him. The frost had arrived during the night, covering everything in a thin layer of white glimmer. It always made him think of those Narnia books. About winter and snow and magic. It made him forget about August and days hotter than the sun and nights just a little cooler than that. And it made him forget about sheets that stuck to his body, covered in sweat, and a hand that pushed itself in between his skin and the fabric.

He jumped when a window to his left creaked open. Despite the minor heart attack, he couldn’t help but feel guilty when he saw his dad’s troubled expression peeking out from the kitchen. Stiles licked his lips and nodded, like he always did when he got caught, and tried to stress a smile.

“I’m okay”, he croaked out, not really sure if he was lying or not. John, on the other hand, seemed to sit on that knowledge, himself.

“You know what?” He crossed his arms on the windowsill, leaning forward to properly look at Stiles, “I don’t think you are.”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, to defend himself, but nothing came out. He ended up huffing out something that could’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t for the bitterness in it. He turned back to look down into the cup in his hand, swirling the coffee around.

It had only been a matter of time, really. Stiles knew that he didn’t eat, that he didn’t sleep. John might have been busy with work, but he’d notice, eventually. He wasn’t blind. While Stiles was grateful for the silence about the matter for the past two weeks, he knew that it wouldn’t be ignored for forever.

“I’ll be okay”, he tried, clearing his throat in an attempt to get rid of the soreness of an unused voice. John hummed, like he didn’t believe it for a second.

“Not unless you do something about it.” Stiles knew that he was right, but the words just hit him like a sledgehammer.

“Yeah, I guess” he managed, but his throat curled in on itself and he had to swallow repeatedly to be able to breathe without tears flooding his eyes.

Stiles was all for solving problems, that’s what he did the majority of the time, anyway. The problem was that this time, he didn’t know how to solve it. Or maybe he didn’t know if it even was possible to solve it. Because somewhere along the way, in almost three and a half years, he’d started to see himself as broken with a missing piece that made it impossible to glue himself back together. Like that time when he dropped a plate and it scattered into five pieces. He had tried to put it back together, but some chipped off parts had hid somewhere and the plate ended up looking ugly. He’d put it in the trash.

The door closing next to him snapped him out of his thoughts. John sighed and put his jacket on, dragging it close around him and fiddling with the car keys.

“You know this already, but you can talk to me. I’ll help you.” Stiles nodded to that, putting his cup of now cold coffee down on the side table.

John then dragged him into a hug. He held him close; steady, like he was made of something fragile. Stiles felt his lower lip starting to tremble and buried his face in John’s shoulder, so close to tears that it hurt.

“I just want you to really be okay” John mumbled, pulling away from the hug then, put kept his hands on Stiles’ upper arms. A small smile was displayed in the corner of his mouth, and it somehow fit.

“Put yourself first, Stiles. Always put your own wellbeing first”, he finished.

Stiles waved him off as he drove off to his morning shift. He spent a few more minutes taking in the sight of the sunrise that made the trees sparkle. When the cold finally got to him, he made his way inside. He took his time while doing the dishes by hand before taking a seat in front of his computer.

It took him two hours of googling, pacing back and forth, staring at his phone, and a handful of nervous ticks before he actually took a deep breath and entered the phone number in his phone. He considered hanging up before anyone picked up, but when a tired but nice voice welcomed him, he swallowed thickly and sat down on his bed.

“Hi. Yes, I would like an appointment with a psychiatrist specialized in post-traumatic stress. Yes, as soon as possible, please. Stilinski. Yes, Stilinski. Thank you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so much fun to talk to you guys, even if it's just a few words back and forth in the comments! :D  
> I just wanted to let you know that since I spent last Christmas in Amsterdam with work, I'll try to make the most out of it this year and spent as much time as possible with loved ones. That means that I probably won't update any stories, so you can expect a break from now on.  
> Merry Christmas, if you celebrate it, and a happy New Year!

Stiles only hung up when the lady on the other line had promised that she’d call back as soon as she had talked to a psychiatrist that could make an appointment with him. He paced around his room for a few minutes before slumping down in his chair. He felt tired. Like the air had just been punched right out of him. And at the same time, he felt anxious and nervous. What if they never called him back? What if there were no psychiatrists available? What if they just laughed at him?

The thought of getting ignored or not taken seriously twisted something inside of him. Not so much because of the shame, but because of the fact that he’d be stuck. He’d be stuck with the nightmares, stuck with the non-eating, stuck with the worried looks, stuck with the pretending, stuck with the silence. It would eat him alive and he would never be able to feel someone kiss his stomach.

Stiles was reaching for his phone again when a loud tap made him yelp and spin around in his chair, flailing enough to throw the phone in a perfect half circle onto the bed. His pulse was speeding around his body, and it only sped up even more when he locked eyes with Derek.

It took Stiles a few seconds to swallow his heart back down from his throat and to hobble his way over to the window and open it. Derek jumped inside, his hair damp from the fog. Stiles took a step back, failing to notice his arms that were raised in a cautious manner. Like he tried not to scare Derek away. He just needed him to not rush off again, not when he just showed up again and caused Stiles body to feel like it was about to explode. Stiles wanted to pull him in close, to hug him, to scratch his neck just the way he likes it, to just feel his presence.

And then Stiles realized that his chance to explain and apologize had finally come.

“I’m so-“

“I know I’m not supposed to but I heard you talking to the Sheriff and I heard you make that phone call” Derek interrupted, and Stiles ended up with his mouth hanging slightly open. His thoughts quickly wandered to the conversation they had had where Derek had promised not to eavesdrop anymore. He then decided that he’s more than happy to bend the rules for that this time, if that was the cause for Derek standing in his childish room again.

“And then I thought that I should talk to you about it, and then I had to get down to the burger joint and get you curly fries.”

Stiles just blinked repeatedly, trying to make any sense of what was being said. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, shook his head, and finally pointed towards Derek.

“You listened in on my phone call and came to the conclusion that getting curly fries equals talking to me about something?”

Derek looked confused at first, and then frustrated. Stiles shrugged apologetically.

“I’m not following.”

Derek sighed and leaned out the window again. Stiles’ heart dropped and he almost yelped at the thought of him fucking up again, making Derek leave, but then the slightly taller man was back with a white box in his hand. He raised it, urging Stiles to take it.

“Curly fries. Because your stomach is rumbling and you shouldn’t be hungry for this.”

Stiles accepted the box and opened it, revealing half soggy curly fries.

“That’s very nice of you and all – thank you – but what exactly is it that I shouldn’t be hungry for?”

He grabbed a fry and expected his mouth to be dry when he put it in his mouth. Instead, he found his stomach rumbling even more, not able to chew the glorious fry fast enough. He’d been hungrier than he’d expected.

Derek closed the window, locking it up and all, before hesitantly taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees, gazing up on Stiles.

“For talking about it.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“Talking about it?”

“Talking about it.”

Even with nothing in his mouth, Stiles kept swallowing. His hands suddenly felt clammy and damp and his heart beat a little harder than before.

“And what, exactly, does that include?”

Derek seemed to sense his uneasiness. He patted the bed next to him and Stiles stiffly shuffled over, sitting down as close to Derek as he could get away with while stuffing some more fries into his mouth.

“Start by eating up”, Derek said gently, not making any effort to create space between them. “Then I’ll tell you about after the fire”, he finished, and Stiles almost choked on food.

He knew about the fire already, about Kate and Peter and all the shit Derek had to go through, but this sounded like more.

It was difficult for Stiles to finish the entire box, but he did, and it earned a smile from Derek. Stiles gave up on pretending that Derek couldn’t hear his heart beat when they ended up pressed close together on the bed. They were just laying side to side, not touching each other in any other way, but it still felt like more than enough. As long as Stiles could have this, he would be okay with everything else.

There was a difference between the beginning of this story than the one Stiles knew from before. It didn’t start with going to school on the morning of. It started with two months after.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the inspiration to write came back!  
> All the previous warnings stand. If you've been through something like this before (non consensual sex), this might be a little heavy to read. I've tried to make it as believable as possible, but since I've taken most of the feelings described in this chapter from my own personal experiences, it might not apply to everyone. This is just one of many ways to feel a trauma!

Two am and Stiles had just stopped sobbing silently into the pillow. His stomach was upset with all the stress and his lungs begged him to take a deep breath. But despite the fact that he felt like throwing up, he felt kind of relieved. Not just the relief you feel after a good cry, but also the relief you feel when something that’s been locked up and hidden away gets dug up and is put out in the open. That it’s not a secret anymore.

He felt like throwing up because Derek had, hours earlier, told him all about what happened after the fire. He had told him about all these things that Stiles never knew needed to be said. The way Derek had described how everything went hazy and pale the time after, or how he felt naked and exposed whenever someone even looked at him with that look or hit on him. It broke Stiles’ heart. Maybe because he hated that Derek had been through all that; hated that someone who only ever wanted to do good had to go through everything bad in the world.

Maybe because Derek described exactly everything Stiles had never had the words to.

Stiles started sobbing again. It hurt. Even with Derek spooning him and hugging him tight, it hurt so much. And it hurt not only in his mind, but his body ached and shook and struggled to take a normal breath and not just gulps of air. His hands were desperately holding on to either Derek or the pillow, he wasn’t sure which, and his legs were pressed together. He felt dirty. Spoiled and ugly and dirty.

He wanted to take a shower, but then he’d have to see himself naked. He wanted to cover himself up with blankets until he disappeared in them, but he’d never be able to put any distance between himself and his body. He wanted Derek to pull him so close that it crushed him, or to shove him away and tell him that he’s disgusting. Only that Derek just kept breathing steadily, hushing comfort in his ear. His arms just holding him. Keeping him. And Stiles had never felt more ugly as he pressed his legs harder together, trying to will it all away.

It took everything he had to stop his mind from thinking it. Thinking that right there, between his legs, was a crime scene. The trauma was still there. They hadn’t cleaned the blood up yet. And his legs were doing a poor fucking job trying to hide that.

“I’m right here”, Derek whispered, and Stiles felt like he was breaking.

“Don’t”, he gasped out. But Derek pulled him closer, his arms cradling him.

“I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles bit his cheeks to fight the urge to turn around and kick and scream and yell at Derek. Yell at him that he shouldn’t be there, that he didn’t want him there.

“I’m not leaving you alone with this”, Derek whispered out between clenched teeth. It was only then that it really, properly dawned on Stiles that he wasn’t the only trauma patient in the room.

He turned around, flung his arms around Derek’s neck and sobbed loudly.

It turned from sobbing to screaming, and then from screaming to wailing, then back to sobbing again.

Stiles didn’t realize it when he dozed off into a dreamless sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been an absolutely freezing morning, in several ways. The windows were foggy when Stiles had opened his eyes at four am, blinking away the shallow sleep, and his breath had come out in clouds from his mouth as he got into his Jeep some five hours later.

But he had also felt as if though he was made of ice. Fragile, and unmoving. He knew what he was about to do, but didn’t feel nervous at all. Just tense, irritated. Cold.

Derek had held him through that night, before, and all through the next day, that day when Stiles couldn’t get out of bed because it hurt so much to exist. The memory like a burning, bleeding, rotting tattoo. That same night, Stiles had finally shut it off and told him that he was fine, that he didn’t need any more help from him. And he had seen it in those marbled eyes, that he didn’t believe a word of it, but he had nodded. Backed off. Told him that he would be nearby, and then hopped on out of the window, into the cold darkness.

Stiles hadn’t called out for Derek after that, not for an entire week, but he felt him close, just like he said. And maybe that made him even more irritated, because he could handle this. He really could. He didn’t need someone to watch his every step.

And so, they hadn’t spoken since that night, hadn’t seen each other. Well, Stiles hadn’t seen Derek, at least. It was for the best. That’s what he told himself as he turned the wheel of his car down the wrong street for the second time this trip.

He didn’t tap his fingers, didn’t bite his lips, didn’t even switch between the radio stations. In fact, he didn’t even turn the radio on. The sound of the road passing beneath him was deafening enough without a melody.

Stiles didn’t take a moment before getting out of his car, parked in the almost empty parking lot. He didn’t need one, since he wasn’t nervous. His feet carried him, stiffly, over the damp pavement. And for a second, the world seemed almost as still and collected.

The lobby had a reception, a table with chairs around it, a few armchairs, a couch, some plants in the big, open windows, and a coffee maker with cups, spoons, sugar, and milk placed around it. Stiles’ eyes stung from the lack of sleep, but he didn’t even give the coffee a second glance. Instead, he made his presence known to the old lady at the reception, paid for his visit, and then took a seat in one of the armchairs. They were dressed in soft fabric, not like his dad’s back at home.

The only thing making any noise in the room was the giant clock on the wall. It didn’t soothe, didn’t give a consistent sound to listen to. Instead, it just made Stiles more agitated. He wished he could rip it off its place on the wall and tear it apart.

“Stilinski?”

He turned his head, hadn’t even heard her enter the room. He stood up and walked over to her, offered his hand without moving a single muscle in his face.

“Stiles.”

“I’m Andrea Hansen.”

They shook hands. Her hand felt just like everything else felt: far away.

“Please, follow me, Stiles.”

He did, through a few corridors and through a door with Andrea’s name on it, along with her status as a psychologist. The huge window at the opposite wall was the first thing to catch his attention, creating a perfect view of the parking lot and the forest behind it. On either end of the window stood two armchairs, probably from the same store as the ones out in the lobby, and in between them were a coffee table. There were some paintings, a small desk with a computer, a bookshelf filled with books and files, plants, and a floor lamp. It felt impersonal. Like no one’s come through here just yet.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Why don’t you have a seat, then?”

He did, sat with his back straight and his hands in his lap. Andrea sat down in front of him, as well, grabbed a pen and a notebook from the coffee table as she did.

And they sat for a few seconds. Just sat. And Stiles wondered what he was doing there.

“What would you like to talk about, Stiles?”

He huffed.

“I figured you’d know what this is about.”

Andrea nodded once, her eyebrows raised.

“All I know is your name and that you requested to talk to someone who had experience with treating posttraumatic stress disorder.”

“Right. Then you know.”

“I don’t.”

Stiles finally looked her straight in the eyes. She smiled at him, a soft smile that showed a pair of dimples.

“I can only assume that you are suffering from symptoms that are characterizing in PTSD, but you will have to tell me exactly what they are, and what you want to do about it.”

Stiles furrowed his brow.

“Listen, I know you want me to talk and tell you all about it, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. I just want something to help the- the- this. All this.”

He gestured at something even he didn't know what it was. Andrea nodded again, scribbled something in the notebook in her lap.

“I’m a psychologist, so I can’t give you any prescriptions. If you choose to go through a treatment for PTSD with us, though, you will get to see a doctor who can do that for you.”

Stiles huffed again, felt more and more as if it was a mistake that he even went.

“Okay. What does a treatment mean?”

“Talking, among other things.”

“Yeah, like I said, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Andrea then put down her notebook, put her hands in her lap as she leaned back into her chair.

“You’re terrified.”

Stiles shook his head.

“Nope. I’m feeling pretty calm, actually.”

“It’s entirely and completely normal. A traumatic experience is bound to leave marks on you.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Okay.”

They looked at each other, Stiles with determination and Andrea with something that looked like a quiet wisdom. It annoyed him more than anything.

“But if you were, Stiles, it’d be normal. Because trauma is persistent and doesn’t stay back there in history, you see. And it’s a valid reaction when faced with reliving it. It wounds and one would be a fool to twist the blade further.”

It was like a switch, because there it was again. The words that were stuck somewhere deep inside Stiles, too dangerous to speak out loud. They were out in the open and it hurt to know what they meant. It hurt, just like that night. He swallowed thickly.

“Then why would you even suggest twisting the blade?”

Andrea kept her gaze steady, and it felt like holding his breath for a long time, because the next words spoken would decide it for him. They were a ruling string of letters bound together and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear them or not.

“Because there is a life without the blade on the other side of it.”

As Stiles walked out of the building, he walked faster than before. Still collected, but more in a hurry than before. He got into his car and put his hand on the wheel, ready to take off when he hesitated. The radio taunted him with its silence. So he got out, started walking. He found himself at the edge of the woods, just past the back of the parking lot.

His throat tightened and sad, sad tears formed in his eyes, a few escaping down his cheeks. It had been a long time since he cried so soundlessly, so without ragged breath.

“I’m terrified, Derek.”

The words barely made it out over his lips, but it was enough, because when he closed his eyes he felt the smell of worn leather and felt those arms around him. Holding him, no matter how much he felt as if he was dying.

“I know. It’s okay.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Tell me what I should do.”

Stiles looked up from his papers. Derek looked puzzled, like he’d been thinking for a long time without getting any closer to some kind of solution. He had been sitting on Stiles’ bed for an hour or so, oddly quiet, even for him.

“What do you mean?”

Derek shifted a little. If Stiles didn’t know any better he’d think that Derek had a hard time deciding what to do with his hands.

“I mean, tell me what I should do to help.”

Stiles took a deep breath, letting out a sigh as he thought about it. He tried to recall if Andrea had said anything about that kind of thing. She had told him to talk to his dad about it, at least as much as he felt comfortable with. Just tell him what’s been going on, how he’s doing. She hadn’t mentioned anything about someone else doing anything, though.

He started flipping through the papers on the floor in front of him, looking for any guidelines, when Derek cleared his throat.

“I meant that maybe you have something you want me to do. Or not to do. As your boyfriend.”

That made Stiles’ heart skip a beat, which Derek noticed.

“Or, you know, as your friend. Whatever you want.”

It almost hurt a little to see that expression on Derek’s face. It looked like he had said something that he wanted to take back, wanted to shut it back inside himself, where it belonged. Stiles smiled, huffed out a weak laugh.

“You’re my boyfriend, dumbass.”

And in just a second, his face changed into something relieved. Stiles couldn’t help but feel happy about it, content with the fact that he could do that to Derek.

“It’s just new. We haven’t said that before.”

Derek looked calmer now, almost pleased. Stiles watched him for a moment before pushing himself up on his knees, stretching his arms over his head. The joints in his elbows cracked and groaned, complained, and the blood rushed to his head for a few seconds. Derek didn’t look very impressed. Stiles ignored him and got on his feet with a soft groan, his knees not that happy with him, either. It had become a habit to lie on the floor while going over the papers from Andrea. It made him think better, somehow. Whenever he tried going through them at his desk, he locked up,always ending up not doing his homework for the week.

He walked up to the bed and sat down on his leg so that he could face Derek.

“I don’t know,” he started, fiddling with a stray thread sticking out from Derek’s gray t-shirt. “Is there something you want to do?”

“Help you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, smiling softly.

“I realize that.”

Silence filled the room for a while, Derek waiting patiently as Stiles lost himself in thoughts.

“I guess I want you to not treat me as a trauma patient. Even though, you know.” He gestured, biting his tongue in case it tries to say the rest of the sentence out loud.

Derek looked at him with that face, though. That face he puts on when he knows that there’s more to say. The face that means that he wants to hear it, and isn’t going to interrupt. Stiles sighed.

“Even though I kind of am.”

He dared meeting those marbled eyes. Those eyes that had cried enough tears for the entire world to go without. And yet, those eyes still looked sad.

“Stiles, I-”

“It’s okay, I know I am. Okay? It’s okay.”

He couldn’t look at them anymore. Those beautiful, sad eyes. He couldn’t take it to see the pity in them. He didn’t want to see it taint the most beautiful things he had.

“You’ll never be just a trauma patient, Stiles.”

Stiles huffed out a shivering breath that was supposed to resemble a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a son, a student, a survivor, all that good stuff. I know I’m more than that.”

Derek shifted next to him, his hands shaking a little.

“That’s good. That you know that you’re more.”

Stiles could hear the but in the end of that sentence. He didn’t ask, though, afraid of what might come after it.

“But what I meant is that you’re not your trauma.”

He looked up again, realizing at the moment he didn’t see a trace of pity in those eyes that this was bigger. Bigger than what, he didn’t know.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Derek licked his lips, his eyes searching for something around them.

“I mean that it feels like it’s inside you, right? That it’s seeping in through the cracks.”

Stiles couldn’t do anything else than nod. Because once again, someone else held the words that were supposed to be his.

“But you’re not your trauma. It’s possible to separate the two of you. And at one point, you will do that, and you’ll take a breath without it hugging your lungs.”

Stiles didn’t like crying, but it seemed like it was the only thing he knew how to do nowadays. It seemed like the only option he had.

But as he cried, he heard the sniffling coming from next to him, as well. He had heard something like it coming from his dad a few times before, but not like this. Because Stiles knew that those tears were the same as his. The darkness, the absolute pitch blackness, the seeping, oozing grease inside of him was the same.

And then it felt a little better to cry, just this once, at the same time as his heart broke unevenly over the fact that he wasn’t alone in this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a description of past sexual abuse at the very beginning of this chapter. Nothing in explicit detail, but it turned my guts to write just those short paragraphs, so I want to point that out. It's marked in italics, so if you don't want to read that part and still read the rest of the chapter, just skip the italics!

_Scott mumbled softly in his sleep in the bunk above him, the open window groaned as the wind moved it back and forth, and Stiles woke up. It was early, the sun just barely glimmering behind the curtain. Just as Stiles made himself comfortable again, ready to fall back asleep in seconds, the door leading out to the corridor of the cottage opened. Footsteps. Hesitation. Then, a hand on his shoulder._

_“No, you go ahead and sleep, kid. Just sleep. Everything’s fine.” The voice, only familiar because he heard it for the first time yesterday.  
“There you go, keep quiet” it continued. Then, a rough hand sliding in between the sheets. Fingers. A hand over his mouth as he whispered a ‘stop’. Pushing, stroking, scratching. Paralyzed. Scott turned over above him, still mumbling, fast asleep. Pain. Inside him._

Stiles couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get any fucking _air_ into his lungs, suffocating, strangled, fucking _come on_ and _breathe-_

He shot straight up in the bed, eyes wide open and lungs cramping and gulping down air and the tears drying on his cheeks and he didn’t need to shake Derek awake, because he probably woke up seconds before Stiles, but he started hitting the body next to him anyway.

“Derek, I- fuck, I can’t- I can’t,” he filled his lungs, felt like bursting, “breathe.”

Derek put his hand on Stiles’ back, the other one over his shoulder.

“Keep your back straight” he said, voice hoarse. “I got you, nothing is going to happen, no one is in danger, and now we’re going to breathe, together. Okay?”

Stiles nodded, hands now gripping at the bed sheets, his knuckles going from red to white. Derek started counting, exaggerating his own breaths to give Stiles something to listen to. And while it took almost an hour, so much longer than it usually takes after all these years, he eventually managed to calm down enough to take slow, deep breaths.

Derek rubbed circles on his back, talked him through it. And even if Stiles was awake, aware that nothing was going to hurt him, it still hurt. The bed sheets hurt. The heavy, sleepy air in the room hurt.

“I need to get out” he said, not making eye contact with Derek.

“Like, outside. I need to go outside.” Derek nodded, still rubbing his back.

“Where do you want to go when you’re outside?”

“I don’t know. I just- I need a change of scenery, I think.”

Stiles could practically feel the sense of pride coming off of Derek. He knew that he’d gotten much better at saying what he wants, what he needs, at explaining. The werewolf had made no secret of how proud he was, how much progress Stiles had made in the last couple of weeks.

“I know a place, we could go there” Derek said. Stiles just nodded.

After debating whether it would be worth the risk to go through the front door for about ten minutes, Derek stood ready on the ground outside Stiles’ window. Stiles did trust Derek, but he still sent a little prayer to whatever godly entity might be listening before jumping. Derek caught him with ease.

Derek got behind the wheel of the Jeep and Stiles didn’t ask where, exactly, they were going. Anywhere was fine. Anywhere that wasn’t the too cramped walls surrounding his bed.

Just being in the car helped a little, the even sound of the road passing underneath them, the soft hum of some indie music on the radio almost lulling Stiles to sleep. He didn’t close his eyes for long, though, feeling the pressure behind his ribs whenever he tried to.

At first it seemed like they were going towards the preserve, except that Derek drove right past the left turn they’d need to make to get there. Then he drove for another few minutes, the road shrinking and getting more uneven as the woods got denser. As they came to a stop, Derek reached back behind the passenger seat to grab a jacket that Stiles had forgotten was even there. He put it on, remembering the chilly winds from when he stood ready to jump in the window of his room.

The sky was mostly clear, just a few stray clouds and otherwise swarmed with tiny shining dots and the shape of the new moon hiding behind the tree tops. Stiles just stood watching it for a minute after getting out of the car, and Derek just let him, stood silently a few feet away from him. When Stiles could tear his eyes away, Derek gestured for him to follow. They didn’t walk for long, not really, but the uneven ground with tree roots and stray rocks and slippery leaves set the pace accordingly. Derek ducked his head in a secret smile as Stiles had sighed at the sight of the hill that they were, obviously, about to make their way up.

It didn’t matter that he was out of breath and tired and that his left leg cramped about half way up, though. Because after climbing that last slippery slope, there was an honest to god tree house. Stiles didn’t know what he’d expected – some sort of view, a lake, maybe just a nice rock to sit on – but it wasn’t this. So he huffed out a laugh, earning a shy smile from Derek.

“Hey, don’t be mean about it. This was my pride and joy when I was a kid.”

Stiles bit his lower lip in a try to stifle his laugh, nodding apologetically. Derek just kept smiling, leading the way to the short, chubby tree trunk that held the tree house a few feet above ground. The wood looked old, rugged from wind and rain, but there was a distinct sign over the entrance that read “Hale property”, which only made Stiles laugh again. Derek let him.

“So, can I come in, or are no boys allowed?”

Derek let his gaze trace the small entrance, his smile wavering a little.

“It used to be no Laura allowed. Cora and I would hide here whenever one of us were mad at her.”

Stiles expected pain hidden in his voice, but found only longing, sadness mixed with fondness of the memory. He let the silence fall for a moment, allowing Derek that much before walking over and putting an arm around his waist.

“I’m sure she had somewhere to hide when you two ganged up on her, too” he said, squeezing his hold on Derek as he laughed.

“She did. We always found her, though. Bribed her with candy to not be mad at us anymore.”

As they climbed into the tree house, Stiles quickly realized that there was no point in even attempting to stand up, so he sat down on his knees, inspecting the walls. There were pins and nails here and there, probably supposed to be holding drawings, or plans of pranks to pull on people. The roof had managed surprisingly well over the years, keeping the rug on the floor dusty but almost completely dry. In the corner was a small wooden table with some marks in it, maybe from tiny werewolf claws. In the back wall was a couple of dirty blankets bunched up in a pile.

After a while of silence, Stiles asked about the claw marks, and Derek told him the story about how he and Cora had forgotten about the full moon one month and just decided to hide in there for a night. Derek had managed, but Cora got so agitated without the rest of their pack there that she accidentally made those marks. When their parents and Laura found them, Cora had roared that this was a Laura free zone, and Laura had just reached in and dragged them both out in one clean sweep. Cora had fought against it at first, before she crumbled and turned to curl up in Laura’s arms, crying softly. They’d walked back home and made hot chocolate.

After five more stories like that one, Stiles just kept yawning and yawning, making Derek laugh at him. When he failed to accuse Derek of making fun of him because of a yawn, Derek pulled him towards him, curling up against the wall. Stiles had said just five minutes, but he woke up an hour later to find Derek looking out through the entrance, smiling softly, the sound of rain against the roof filling the silence. Derek had just pulled him closer as he noticed that he was awake, pulling his jacket tighter around them, and Stiles could breathe again.


End file.
